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BBQ.

One of Earl’s recent favorite stories about me is our dining experience in Martinsburg, West Virginia back in March. Long story short, we went for a long ride and ended up in Martinsburg. We set up shop in a Hampton Inn with the promise that we would go out exploring after supper, even if that meant driving the two hours to D.C. to hit a real bear bar or something.

We ended up going to the neighboring Texas Roadhouse, where there was an hour wait. An hour later, I was pretty sloshed on three beers and eating BBQ ribs, complete with BBQ ribs sauce in my beard and up my sleeves to my elbows. At least I didn’t pinch anyone’s ass while I was there. I do have some shred of decency.

Needless to say, Earl deposited me on the hotel bed at 9:30 where I basically passed out and he surfed the internet on the hotel wireless connection. Viva la Martinsburg.

The reason I mention this story is because I am having a hankerin’ for some real BBQ food. Having had a couple of wonderful BBQ experiences while on vacation earlier this month, I’ve been obsessing about slugging a few beers and eating at a roadhouse where you can throw your peanut shells on the floor and country music is blaring from the speakers. I’m thinking of something safe but a little seedy. A cowboy or two as an accessory would be most welcomed.

There’s no such place here. Bummer. I had my hopes up over the weekend when we went to a new local place, the “Route 69 Steakhouse and Saloon” (now _that_ sounded seedy to me but it’s really on Route 69) but while the food was quite good, it was way too tame and the menu had an overly Italian slant for my tastes. I couldn’t throw peanut shells on the floor because, well, there were no peanuts to be found and more importantly it would have messed up the carpeting.

I think this weekend’s “one frivilous meal” is going to be at type of place I’m looking for. Even if I have to drive to Martinsburg, W. Va. to find it.

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